BFF Moments
by windscryer
Summary: Boys being boys and having fun, no work-related strings attached. Gen. PYO ASR 'verse.
1. Wrestlemania

These will be just random one-shots of the boys doing regular, everyday things that have nothing to do with ghosts, vampires, visions of any veracity level, or arsassonists.

You have been warned. There be schmoop ahead. Big piles of fluffy, squishy schmoop. :D

Disclaimer: I have boys from two different universes. I own neither or this would be one big happy supernaturally inclined joyfest of canon. Also, it would so be on tv.

**TIMELINE MARKER**

Timeline? We don't need no stinkin' timeline.

These take place in the 'verse. That's all I--and therefore you--know. The when is not so important. Just go with it. :D

* * *

They were like magnets, the three of them.

Like spinning bar magnets.

They'd come together, all south poles to the center at once, and repel like magnets do, bouncing off of each other.

But then the natural forces of that effect would come into play and they'd end up sideways, norths and souths equidistant to the middle pulling together.

Shawn would be in the main room watching TV and Sam would drift in, looking for a book among the stacks. Dean would wander through and not be able to wander back out.

But then they'd all suddenly realize that they were together. In the same room.

The northern poles would swing inward and they'd scatter like pinballs, Shawn rocketing to the kitchen to cook something—anything—while Sam would bounce off the walls and end up in Bobby's den with his computer and Dean would ping off the door and end up on the porch.

They all had the notion that it was driving Bobby nuts, but none of them knew quite how to fix it.

Dean wanted to ignore it, as always.

Sam wanted to talk it out, as always.

Shawn just wanted it fixed. He didn't have a more specific plan than that, but this state of spinning repulsion and compulsion was starting to make him dizzy.

None of them could even explain how it had happened.

The hunt had been the same as always.

Dean found it, Sam confirmed it, and Shawn tried to weasel into it. Of course, after that fateful ghost hunt his attempts were a lot less successful. If he wanted to hunt he had to be the first to end up knee-deep in the shit pile. Otherwise he got left behind.

Mostly, this was actually okay with him. Some of the things they hunted he had no desire to meet in a sunny city square let alone some dark ravine in the forgotten woods.

But somehow, this hunt had ended up differently.

Shawn had stayed and Sam and Dean had gone and when they came back, banged up and bruised and leaking in a few, small places, Words had been said. Angry Words. Of the type Not Easily Taken Back.

None of them even knew exactly what had been spoken.

Well, okay, _Shawn_ knew. But he wasn't telling. Because he didn't know _why_. It didn't make any sense. And probably never would.

He saw no reason to bring up the specific Words used, especially since he doubt they'd go over any better this time around.

And yet . . . He sighed and stirred the bowl of marinade.

Added another dash of clove as he pondered what to do about this stupid thing.

He stared at the bowl for a long time, as if thinking of what else to add.

Nothing. It was perfect.

He put in the steaks and sealed the lid and stuffed it in the fridge. It should be ready by dinner.

Hopefully, by then, they'd all be able to sit at the same table.

But only if something was done.

And it looked like no one was going to do anything, so he'd have to take the lead on this one.

He wandered outside, knowing the other two wouldn't be able to resist following, and started walking through the junk yard, the car corpses stacked high in the sun, inexplicably making him think of a picture he'd seen in, oh, probably third or fourth grade, of stacks of pelts in a fur trapper's cabin in some book he'd read for school.

Bobby wasn't just a hunter of evil it seemed.

He was pretty deep in when he stopped.

They were both behind him, pretending they weren't following and pretending even more that they didn't know the other was there.

He stopped, toed the ground, and nodded. Yeah. This might work.

Then he turned around.

"Hey, Sam?"

Sam looked up, deer-caught-in-headlights expression in full force.

"Come here."

Sam frowned, now all wary-fox-looking-for-a-trap.

Dean watched closely, alpha-wolf-ready-to-protect-his-pack.

Shawn just stood there, dumb-human-hoping-he-survived-and-was-as-smart-as-he-thought.

Sam glanced once at Dean, but got no response, and so moved forward.

He stopped five feet away. Dean, caught in the spell of the magnetism they'd developed, following just a few steps behind.

"Yeah?" Sam said warily.

Shawn attacked, launching himself at Sam's stomach.

Sam, reacting from years of training, sidestepped just as Dean entered the small area of activity and met Shawn shoulder to shoulder.

The two of them went down in a heap and Sam only stared for a moment before he joined the fray.

In normal circumstances Shawn, with his complete lack of formal training and the associated years of honed reflexes, would have been pinned before he even had a chance to blink.

But right now the Brothers Winchester weren't working in sync. Dean may have leapt forward to protect Sam, but only because that instinct had been forged from years of practice, made from a smelt that came from birth. Not even this schism could overcome that moment of reaction.

That ended though as soon as Sam dove into the melee.

It was a three-way free-for-all and that split was a handicap for them that gave Shawn a fighting chance—pun intended.

They grappled and wrestled and twisted for what seemed like hours though in reality was closer to fifteen minutes. Maybe half an hour.

And then, somewhere in the fierceness and the anger and the unrecognized tension, they found their groove.

Like they just needed a good tumble for the pieces to fall back into place.

Then the all-out fighting took a playful turn.

Dean grinned at Shawn in a moment of accidental eye contact and got a grin back. He pinned Sam's arms and legs while Shawn's questing fingers found those ticklish spots on Sam's sides that made him try to curl up and gasp, pleading for the torture to end.

And then Sam bucked Dean off after catching his gaze and he and his brother turned their combined forces on Shawn, subduing him under a tangle of Winchester limbs and making him cry uncle as Dean got revenge on his brother's behalf.

Shawn managed to squeak out something that Dean didn't quite catch but that Sam sure did, if that ducking head was any indication, that had him letting go and helping Shawn to sit up . . . before they both turned and tackled Dean.

Then they split forces again, every man for himself in a full-scale tickle war and wrestling match as they all three vied for superiority.

They eventually exhausted themselves, collapsing in a heap of laughing, sweaty, dusty men reduced to boys—and almost puppies—in a brief session of play.

No real talking took place—not with words—but their problems weren't ignored either.

Somehow, they found that middle ground that satisfied everyone and dissolved the tension, leaving them back where they had been before the hunt.

Eventually they climbed to their feet, helping each other and still laughing and tossing the kind of verbal barbs that could barely be classified as such they were so dull, and headed back to the house.

By the time they arrived the odd case of magnetism had shifted. Not vanished, but changed. They were no longer bar magnets, spinning under outside influences they couldn't control, but iron filings, drawn together as they shoved and jostled each other across the yard and up the steps into the house.

Bobby watched them from the garage and smiled, shaking his head.

He never quite knew what to do with the three of them when they were here.

But he sure as hell missed them when they were gone.

* * *

Review, plz&thx.


	2. Dog Days of Summer

I needed a lighthearted pick me up. Lucky for you, my Muse felt like obliging. Normally she'd respond to my mood by reciprocation and given you all something wholly depressing.

Happily, this is not the case.

* * *

They were like puppies sometimes, Bobby thought.

Great Dane or Saint Bernard or Bull Mastiff puppies, huge and full grown except for that last bit of mischief and wiggle, but puppies nonetheless.

If anyone ever asked him why he thought such an odd thing about three adult men who were more than capable of handling themselves in some of the most dangerous situations that ever existed, he'd point to a day like this.

o.o

Why _his_ house became the headquarters for these meetings, he'd never know.

He wasn't exactly centrally located for a boy who cooled his heels in the Cali surf and two others that parked their butts wherever they parked their car.

And yet, Bobby wasn't exactly complaining either.

For all they blew in like a Texas tornado and left twice as much mess behind, they also brought life to the old house and as long as they were there—and for a while after they left—it felt like a home again, instead of a dusty, drafty mausoleum for more books than a library needed and one old man who refused to die.

Didn't mean they weren't like a litter of puppies.

Like all packs of pups they fought hard and played hard and lived life like it was gonna run out on them at any moment—like the sand in a massive hourglass, the quantity of grains left in the upper half unknown—and so they had to fill it their time with as much energy as they could.

Which explained why the morning had begun with a jog through the woods that turned into a race—loser did dishes. Dean won with a crow and war whoop fit to wake the dead and a victory dance that belied the fact that he'd just run five miles and sprinted the last half of one of those. Sam's loss was not graceful, his face set in a deep scowl and his words scorn and complaint and accusation of cheating. Shawn had jogged in well after the other two, grinning and quiet for once, secure in the knowledge that as preparer of breakfast he would not be required to clean it up no matter how slow he moved.

After a day-starting meal that was as more like breakfast with a show the way Shawn cooked it for his willing and appreciative audience, they all three of them ended up doing the dishes together, the jokes and quips and pokes and laughs the soundtrack for this event.

Bobby watched silently, trying not to grin too widely for fear of being teased for his old man's sentimentality—or senility. Depended on who got the first word in as to which one it would be.

He kicked them out to the yard after they made a mess of his kitchen with the dishwater, the dishes themselves all clean, though the sink and floor and walls had to be listed as casualties in the fight.

While he cleaned and dried up the battlefield and watched them through the window, they'd gotten themselves all filthy again with a self defense lesson that ended with Shawn in the dirt mostly, though he pulled a trick or two and took down both of the Brothers Winchester in turn by at least a peg.

They ended up in a wrestling match—as usual—but instead of coming in to change when it was done, Dean offered them both hands up, then jerked his head at the workbench that sat out in the yard.

The Impala had been parked next to it instead of the usual spot out front and now Bobby saw why. Time for the role of pupil and masters to shift slightly so that it was Sam's shaggy head being filled with information by his two shorter—if much more knowledgeable in this one area at least—instructors.

They were changing out the filters and doing some belt work it looked like and it took them the better part of the morning.

When they came in and interrupted Bobby's quiet study of an ancient Sumerian text for another hunter, the clock showed the day was half over.

Bobby sighed and rubbed at his eyes, but shut the book.

He wasn't allowed to study though a meal any more than the others were allowed to clean guns or read a book for pleasure.

Not that any of them really _wanted_ to skip a meal when Shawn was the one making it.

Sam must have done something to win rights to pick the entrée because it was a salad.

A Cobb salad—which wasn't as bad as just a simple chef's or side because it had chicken strips—but still a salad.

However Shawn's retelling of the origins of the salad from his home state while he tossed the four kinds of lettuce—then layered that and the bacon, tomato, hard boiled egg, avocado, and chicken on each plate, then topped it with a sprinkling of bleu cheese—helped with the fact that it was essentially rabbit food and even Dean didn't whine too much about the lack of grease and salt.

Sure, there were a few details Bobby hadn't heard before that made him wonder if they were not well known or just outright made up, but it was Shawn so odds were pretty good for both and neither really mattered.

Bobby shooed them out before they could try and massacre his kitchen again, telling them that he was more than capable of handling a few dishes by himself, thank you very much, and they stumbled and tripped over each other out into the main room of Bobby's house where the old couch sat in front of a TV.

"You wash those greasy, dusty asses of yours before you touch my furniture!" Bobby hollered and the litter made a change of direction as one toward the stairs.

Ninety blissful minutes passed in near silence, the only sounds Bobby's dishwashing for the first bit, and then the occasional thump of feet upstairs as the boys took turns in the shower washing off the grease and sweat and dirt of the morning.

Bobby enjoyed it while it lasted.

Then they came bounding down the stairs, all of them in bare feet, but pounding like they were all in their boots.

They retook the main room by storm.

Most of the floor was—for once—clear, as was the couch.

So while Bobby didn't understand why Sam started on the floor when Shawn and Dean shared the very large expanse of couch, it wasn't all that much surprise when a comment from Sam brought first Dean, then Shawn, down to the floor with the youngest of the litter for another wrestling match, their blood and explosion and action-filled movie on the TV forgotten.

Bobby watched from his spot leaning on the door jamb, unable to help remembering when he'd picked up Rumsfeld from the breeder that supplied all of his dogs.

Same damn thing now as then, three overgrown pups rolling and tumbling together, unaware or uncaring right now of a world that was full of big bad evil things that would bring them pain and sorrow and regret, just lost in the joy of play-fighting with brothers.

And then, like boys and puppies are wont to do, they tuckered themselves out until their ball of limbs and paws and wiggling bodies just sort of wound down to nothing, like a top wobbling to a halt and turning on the side.

And then they slept just like that, the three of them all sprawled and yet curled into a big ol' dogplie in the middle of Bobby's floor.

They weren't puppies.

They were men, grown and aged beyond their years all of them.

But in that moment, sleeping the sleep of the just and dreaming the dreams of a well-spent day, those years all washed away and they looked like little boys, innocent and peaceful and not at all troubled by the things that would hurt them when the grew up—and woke up.

Bobby watched for another moment, eyes suspiciously moist, then with a sniff and a shake of his old head he turned and went back to his den on cat-quiet feet.

There was a reason for the old phrase 'let sleeping dogs lie' and even if this wasn't quite it, he still thought it a fine piece of wisdom that could be applied very handily—if a bit literally—to this particular situation.

And with the three of them in town, peace and quiet was a rare commodity indeed. Better enjoy it while it lasted.

* * *

Review plz&thx.


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